


Fragments of Honour

by thelightofmorning



Series: Blood of the Aurelii [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Now returned home from her wander-years abroad and having confronted her mother in a holmgang at the summer Moot, Korli has set herself the task of finding the lost fragments of Wuuthrad and a cure for the lycanthropy curse that afflicts Kodlak Whitemane to pay the debt owed to him. But there are many arrows to a quiver when a hand needs them and two great enemies will unite to avenge the insult done to the Stormcloaks, by any means necessary. Yet this Companion has kin in the Druadachs and even the earthbones will answer in her need...
Series: Blood of the Aurelii [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695604
Comments: 57
Kudos: 46





	1. The Summer Moot

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. Third in the ‘Blood of the Aurelii’ series.

Jorrvaskr awoke to the sound of ringing steel coming from the Skyforge in the grey light of dawn. Aela, who’d just come in from a night-hunt on the plains, climbed the stairs to see Korli hammering out the first parts of what looked to become a set of old-style totemic plate. From the aquiline curve of the piece she worked on, it would be a helmet in the form of an hawk’s head – fitting, given her religious allegiances.

“Welcome back, Shield-Sister,” Aela said warmly. “Jorrvaskr has been empty without you.”

Korli gave her a quick glance from blue-green eyes. In the uncertain light of the Skyforge and predawn, they looked almost glacial. “Has Skjor stopped undermining Kodlak as I suggested a half-year ago?”

“We’ve become… more discreet,” Aela said with a flush, feeling slightly ashamed.

“It’ll have to do, I suppose. I’m not ready to challenge Kodlak and to be honest, I don’t want to.” Korli continued to hammer the red-hot metal. “I go to the summer Moot, to call out my mother for dishonour, then I’ll be searching for the fragments of Wuuthrad. Reforging Ysgramor’s axe will be my masterpiece.”

Aela swallowed her frustration. Korli was trying to follow what she felt was the honourable path. “We need a Harbinger who can guide us now, not in however long it takes to find the fragments. We have most of the head; a couple of ingots and a new haft should do the trick, surely.”

“I’ll be twenty-one next Sun’s Dawn,” Korli continued, seemingly ignoring Aela’s veiled plea. “How could I advise Skjor or Vignar when they’ve twice and thrice the experience of me as warriors and Companions? Honour isn’t something you can pluck from a tree or buy at Belethor’s. It needs to be earned in blood and sweat and tears… and then shared. Who is more worthy of respect, the Jarl who is gullveig and hoards his wealth or the one who is a ring-giver, spending freely and keeping little so that his people might prosper?”

She quenched the metal piece in the trough. “The Companions, though they don’t dabble in politics, are still examples of honour to all. If the churl sees a person they know to be honourable silent in the face of an act that seems unjust, they don’t see it as neutrality or reticence, they see it as condoning an act that they just can’t see the honour of. My mother has sponsored a Daedric murder cult, sent in proxies to take over a valuable mine in Orsinium, and is actively using assassination as a means of softening up her enemies. I tried to remain silent. I even went into exile to avoid confrontation. But wherever I went, there was the understanding that because I did nothing, the dishonour would continue.”

Instead of arguing like she normally would, Aela took the time to consider Korli’s words. There were echoes of the Orcish and Redguard influences that Skjor spoke of after he visited her in Elinhir. “Are you saying the Companions are hoarding their fame and honour?”

Korli began to reheat a new piece of metal. “It’s one thing to have high standards and quite another to turn down everyone because they’re too flawed in your eyes. If someone like Skjor or Kodlak had been around in the wake of the Great War for my father, he could have been an honourable man. My uncle Irkand could have become a Companion if Skjor had been more of a friend to him and offered him an alternative. How many souls linger in Markarth and Riften, mired in corruption and hopelessness, because there’s no example of honour that reached out to them? We may never know.”

“I… think I understand,” Aela said slowly. “You’re saying we’ve become so focused on our own personal honour that we’ve forgotten to encourage Skyrim’s honour as a whole.”

“Close enough, I suppose. I’m still trying to articulate it myself.” Down the hammer fell, regular and ringing like temple bells. “The fact remains that despite all I’ve done, your average Nord won’t give a fuck I withstood a blow from Malacath wielding Volendrung in holmgang yet didn’t strike back or that I survived the sum of my fears incarnated in Alduin’s form during the Star Ordeal of the Academy of Mages in Elinhir. For what is Orcish and Redguard honour to a child of Kyne? An elf may have the heart of a Nord but that can only be the temper; the alloy of their soul is smelted in the fires of their culture and experience.”

“Athis has done a pretty good job of combining the Dunmer ways with those of Jorrvaskr,” Aela pointed out.

“Yes, I noticed. I still have a certain pragmatism in my own approach to combat; I measure my tactics to the honour of an enemy.” Korli’s expression was wry. “What point in confronting a bandit head-on when they’d stab you in the back?”

Aela was startled into a laugh. “I see some of my lessons stuck.”

“Outside of Eorlund, you and Farkas were the Companions who left their mark the most on me,” Korli said. “But I have had other teachers who have left their mark on me too. And I still have so much to learn, in both smithing and the ways of honour.”

She returned to her work. “So I will be staying with the Grey-Manes and working on this armour. I’m a Companion of Jorrvaskr… but it isn’t time for me to return home. Not yet.”

…

“Why wasn’t I told Korli had returned?” Sigdrifa hissed demandingly as the other nobles filed into the Great Hall of the Blue Palace. Gods but she was sick of this charade; she wished she could strike hard, fast and clean to cut the rot from Skyrim’s Jarls. But she knew while Istlod lived, Ulfric would honour his oath of allegiance, even if it had been obtained under duress. She reminded herself it gave them time to prepare. But it was hard to do this year after year while knowing how rotten the fruit was.

“I thought you knew,” Galmar said, a touch defensively.

“I don’t know everything, Stone-Fist. If I did, Ulfric would be sitting in Istlod’s place.”

He grunted in acknowledgement of that. Galmar and Sigdrifa had learned to work together as Ulfric’s right and left hands, but there was still friction. He was a simple man with a simplistic sense of honour, when Sigdrifa knew that the honour lay in achieving results.

Sigdrifa turned her gaze back to Korli, who had entered with the Grey-Manes and taken a place among the petitioners. Gone was the sickly, soft-footed, cringing girl who wheezed like a bellows when she did anything remotely physical; in her place was a compact woman who wore her… good gods, the little bint had forged herself totemic carved plate embossed with the hawks of her chosen deity Kynareth. A hawk-headed helmet, topped with a tuft of hawk feathers, was tucked into the crook of an arm while she wore the quicksilver-ebony alloy of the plate as easily as Balgruuf wore his damned silks. Bronze earrings, set with turquoise and bells, hung from her ears in an act of vanity that appalled Sigdrifa; she’d outlined her blue-green eyes with kohl and reddened her lips. Blue-green paint in the cross-hatched pattern of a Reacher ran over her beaky nose and high cheekbones while her black hair was pulled into an Orcish topknot, held through with an orichalcum hair-pin that looked more like a stiletto.

When her daughter became aware of her scrutiny, Korli fixed Sigdrifa with a gaze as eloquently contemptuous as it was icy.

Ulfric rejoined them after having words with Korir and Skald, his expression stony. “She’s here to challenge you,” he said without preamble. “You weren’t as subtle as you thought in taking over that mine in Falkreath-“

“Orsinium,” Korli interrupted with a clear carrying contralto. Was she eavesdropping? Shameless. “Agol Tukh lies in the lands claimed by Orsinium.”

She pushed her way through the crowd as the other nobles’ heads turned to watch the show. “Be glad, mother mine, I don’t make the fact you tried to poison an entire noble household in Hammerfell public. I’m here to remind you of honour, not destroy you utterly.”

“Knifepoint Ridge belongs to Falkreath,” Ulfric reminded her testily. “Orsinium does not exist.”

“Ulfric, for once in your life, shut the fuck up,” Korli answered in a pleasant tone. “The Stormcloaks can hardly advocate for self-rule and religious autonomy if they won’t acknowledge the rights of the Reachfolk and the Orcs to do the same, can they? We won’t even get into the persecution of the Nords who follow the old faith by Talosites.”

“Oh, this will be good,” Rikke said from her post by Gracchus with a broad grin. “See, I told you conscripting her was a bad idea.”

Sigdrifa throttled the immediate impulse to swat the girl like she deserved or to raise her voice like a scolding mother. She’d just look like a shrew if she did. “What is the grounds of your ‘challenge’? I thought kinslaying was forbidden to Companions of Jorrvaskr.”

“I have no intention of killing you. That’s why it will be fists only, as is customary when a Companion stands as champion for one who has been dishonoured and can’t defend themselves.” Korli’s gaze was frank and calm. “As for the reason… well, I’d say perverting your oaths is a good one. You swore as Jarl-Regent to protect the people of Eastmarch in Ulfric’s absence; but Dunmer and Argonians starved and froze to death because you gave most of the supplies to the Hold guard and what was left to the Nords. You swore by holy Talos to Ulfric’s father Hoag you were a virgin Shieldmaiden before your marriage to his son. As we can tell by my presence, _that_ was a lie, so you took your own god’s name in vain.”

“Why are you doing this?” Galmar growled.

“Because if you want to build a new Skyrim, it can hardly be done on a foundation of lies, oath-breaking, betrayal and dishonour,” Korli answered softly. “I do this to _save_ my family’s honour, not destroy it. I have come to terms with, made my peace with, and embraced all the bloodlines that flow in me. This is the final step in that process.”

“You are no daughter of mine!” Sigdrifa hissed.

“Do you really want to go there, Stormsword?” Now Korli’s eyes were glacial, though the golden wash of them seemed to burn with a dragon’s fire. “Because if I’m not your daughter, it wouldn’t be kinslaughter by any Nord laws, and I am just angry enough to gladly wash my hands of it. Only my brothers and the Nord concept of honour keep me from declaring _you_ the nithing and being free of it.”

It was then Sigdrifa realised that she’d created her own doom.

“I will stand by what I’ve done for the good of Skyrim and you will not be able to withstand my righteous wrath,” she snarled in reply.

“Bitch, _please_. I stood against Malacath wielding Volendrung and you’ve spent the past thirteen or fourteen years sitting on your arse behind a desk,” Korli answered serenely. “Do you want some time to prepare or shall we get it out of the way before the Moot begins?”

“I should have beaten you more as a child.” Sigdrifa unbuckled her greatsword and handed it to Galmar. “I’ll remedy that lack now.”

Once the cloak had been laid down, both stepped onto it, and Sigdrifa immediately launched her attack before Korli had settled into a proper stance. But somehow, the brat caught her fist and turned it to the side with a grip of iron.

“A thrust is elegant, and a cut is powerful,” Korli began as she pulled her mother in, “but sometimes the right action is a head-butt.”

Sigdrifa knew only blinding pain as Korli’s forehead connected with her nose, breaking it on impact. Blinking back tears, she swung wildly, and her fist was caught again.

“This isn’t as cathartic as I thought it would be,” Korli panted as she pulled her mother into an implacable hold. “Which probably suggests I’m not doing this holmgang in perfect honour but instead with the very great desire to beat the shit out of you. So let us be done with it.”

With raw strength, she threw Sigdrifa over her hip so hard that the Stormsword rolled off the cloak and over the feet of some overdressed courtier, provoking a yelp.

Sigdrifa panted as Korli loomed over her. “You know what must be done to make things right,” her daughter said in an ice-cold tone. “You’re a Nord. Act like one.”

“What honour was in that holmgang?” Ulfric demanded in a low dangerous rumble.

“Not as much as I’d have liked.” Korli rubbed her forehead gingerly, golden healing magic sparking through her gauntleted fingers. “But be warned, Ulfric. If the Stormcloaks abuse the non-Nords of Eastmarch or persecute the followers of the pre-Talosite Nord faith again, I will come for _you_ next, and you will wish you were dead if I do so. The Companions of Jorrvaskr are apart from politics, but we are also the first bane of anyone who abuses their power. Too long we have forgotten it. Now we remember and I will be the first to remind any Nord who forgets it. _Stormcloak or Imperial._ ”

She turned away in disgust and stalked out of the Great Hall, leaving a stunned silence and a greatly shamed Sigdrifa in her wake.


	2. Silver Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. The Silver Hand being descended from schismatic Companions was floated around on YouTube a few years ago and I think it’s a great theory, so I’m using it.

“I see you’ve retrieved more than a few of Wuuthrad’s fragments already,” Korli observed as she studied the pieces of Ysgramor’s sacred weapon laid out on the table.

“The Silver Hand had a few pieces we were unaware of,” Skjor answered, folding his arms. “We’ve been able to retrieve most of them.”

She traced the outline of the pieces, transposing the image of the battleaxe from various records onto them. “We need about three more. Then there will be enough to reforge the axe.”

“You _can_ reforge Wuuthrad, right?” Athis asked from the other side of the table.

“If I can get the conditions right, I think so. If not, Eorlund will certainly be able to.”

“The Silver Hand’s been making active efforts to find more fragments than we realised,” Skjor said after a moment’s silence. “I can’t imagine why. It won’t give them any kind of honour.”

Korli pushed herself away from the table. “I get that they’re werewolf hunters, but why do they hate the Companions in particular? Your bargain with Hircine gives you control over the beast form and sentience even in a frenzy. In some ways, it’s made you better protectors of Skyrim, not worse…”

“Because once, the Silver Hand were Companions who refused Terrfyg’s bargain, denied his status as Harbinger, and tried to overthrow him but were defeated and driven out,” Skjor answered with a heavy sigh. “Once, they might have had honour. But cut off from Jorrvaskr and the Tomb of Ysgramor, they grew bitter and resentful, lowering their standards until they accepted any bandit who wandered their way. Now, they’re just a group of sadistic thugs who use werewolves as an excuse to torture and murder.”

“Now you know why I’m not so keen to challenge Kodlak,” Korli said dryly.

“Maybe,” Skjor said dubiously. “But the fact remains the last few shards of Wuuthrad are likely to be in the hands of the Silver Hand. It’s an honourable quest you’ve set yourself, Korli, but is it a wise one to pursue at the moment?”

“I can’t stay in Jorrvaskr for reasons of honour and word from the Reach is that the Glenmoril witches aren’t meeting with anyone, so there goes the idea of pursuing a cure,” Korli pointed out. “After the Moot, I’d be stupid to go east into the Old Holds, and a trip to Solstheim is not feasible. This is the only thing I can do that will be both honourable and practical, Skjor. If you have a better suggestion that doesn’t involve me going for a position I’m not ready for, I’d love to hear it.”

He shook his head. “For the moment, you’re right. I can tell you where a relatively undefended piece of Wuuthrad is, and it isn’t too far from here.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Valtheim Towers, on the border of Whiterun and Eastmarch. Be careful. It’s a bridge across the White River held by two towers – and the archers will probably see you coming.”

Korli smiled thinly. “I’ve learned a few tricks in Orsinium and Hammerfell. You’d be surprised what I can handle now.”

…

“Werewolves in Jorrvaskr? You’re certain of this?”

Thongvor Silver-Blood wasn’t as shocked as he should be, not after what a so-called Companion had done to the Stormsword at the summer Moot, but he was still quite disturbed at this news. Until now, he’d believed the Silver Hand to straddle the line between mercenary and bandit with a somewhat socially acceptable goal of hunting werewolves. But now…

“Yes,” the red-haired woman in a werewolf-skin mantle answered with a sigh. “Terrfyg was an idiot and a traitor to the ideals of Ysgramor, and at best, his successors have been honourable people deluded into thinking his bargain with the Hagravens was a good thing. My predecessor, Krev the Skinner, made the mistake of provoking the Circle by attacking Farkas as he oversaw the Proving of Korli and we’ve paid for it ever since. Most werewolves become beasts when they’re transformed; the Companions are truly dangerous because they retain human intellect during those times, and may transform at will.”

He spat to the side. “Korli is no Companion! She’s a little…”

“ _Don’t_ underestimate the granddaughter of the former High Priestess of Hircine, the grand-niece of Madanach, the great-great-granddaughter of a woman who mantled an aspect of a Daedric Prince and someone who has very potent political connections in western Tamriel,” the Silver Hand interrupted. “The Empire won’t go after her because she’s paid scutage and served their purposes in destroying the Stormsword so publicly, even if she’s the last of the Aurelii. The Dark Brotherhood won’t attack her because her father is a high-ranking member of the Children of Satakal, the Redguard equivalent, in Hammerfell and isn’t shy about crossing the border to kill his enemies. Korli is pretty much expected to become the next false Harbinger and she’s got the charisma to hold the job. It’s only her admitted, if misplaced, honour that has kept her from removing Kodlak Whitemane from the position.”

“You sound like you admire her,” Thongvor said in disbelief.

“If we’d gotten to her first, she could have been one of our number. There is no dishonour in respecting a dangerous enemy,” was the reply. “Korli is _so_ dangerous because she is truly honourable. I regret having to eliminate her, but for Sigdrifa’s sake and ours, she must be destroyed.”

Thonar, sitting next to Thongvor, stirred. “So why have you come to us?”

“Sigdrifa used to fund us,” the Silver Hand admitted. “Krev was the son of a failed Shieldmaiden, and the Stormsword had a broader understanding of the Shieldmaiden doctrine than the High-Mother at Yngvild. Like the false Companions, we’re not above taking jobs for money, and that’s something you have pots of. In return, you get our muscle for other tasks that can’t be traced to your known mercenaries.”

“What kind of funds are you talking about?” Thonar asked with a pained expression.

“Oh, five hundred septims a quarter, the use of your smelter to produce the alloy we use to forge our weapons, a base somewhere in the Reach and permission to raid native settlements for supplies,” she answered with a smile. “And when we are settled back in Jorrvaskr, you’ll have our Harbinger’s support for any power plays you might wish to make.”

“What makes you think we’ll do that?”

Her expression was wry. “Thonar, _please_. Sigdrifa’s been broken and it’s doubtful if she can regain her verve. Ulfric, though he won’t admit it, is scared shitless of Korli. Galmar won’t press the issue without orders. The Stormcloaks are reeling and they’ll need leaders with both honour and political acumen to take command.”

Thongvor allowed himself a laugh. “You’ve summed up the situation quite well.”

“Just because Companions don’t play politics doesn’t mean we are ignorant of them.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “We have a shard of Wuuthrad that we can use as bait. Korli’s set herself the task of reforging Wuuthrad. If we were to lure her into the Reach…”

The Silver-Blood brothers listened intently. You never knew when a plump pheasant fell into your hand, dropped by a hawk…


	3. Ancestral Worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse. Korli has essentially completed 1/3rd of the Companions questline so it’s around ‘The Silver Hand’ now.

Korli made sure of the last Silver Hand before stripping her of her armour and rolling her off the bridge into the White River for the slaughterfish, mudcrabs and other scavengers. It was almost sunset and she had no desire to traverse the plains back to Whiterun, so she would spend the night here, salvaging what she’d looted from the Silver Hand, and then deliver the fragment of Wuuthrad to Skjor tomorrow. Eorlund would welcome the scrap iron and weapons.

The renegades had enough food to hand for her to make an excellent meal of it, and just as she’d sat down to start sorting through the arms and armour over dinner, the stairs creaked under someone’s heavy tread. She pushed the rusty chainmail from her lap and grabbed her crossbow, loading it just as a blond Nord in battered iron plate entered the Silver Hand chief’s bedroom. “Please, don’t shoot!” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “I mean no harm, truly!”

Korli studied him for a moment before lowering her crossbow. “Are you of the Silver Hand?”

“Those thugs? Gods, no!” He glanced around, noting the bloodstains. “I saw their corpses in the water and… well… came to see if there was somewhere I could sleep.”

“Plenty of bedrolls,” Korli confirmed, grabbing the chainmail again. “Given I killed the lot of them, I get the bed.”

He closed his eyes. “ _You_ killed seven bandits? Are you a mercenary? I have some work for you and while I can’t pay you in coin, you can have your pick of my ancestors’ grave goods.”

“I’m Korli Grey-Mane, Companion of Jorrvaskr.” Korli gestured to the food. “Help yourself. What do you need?”

Over the course of the meal, Golldir revealed that a dark elf with a reputation for necromancy had sealed off Hillgrund’s Tomb just northeast of Valtheim Towers after boasting of desecrating Nord ancestors at the pub. “My aunt Agna went in a day or so ago and she hasn’t come out. I-I’m scared of the draugr. My father got drunk and locked me in the tomb for three days and… I… ate the offerings left for them and…”

He shuddered.

“My mother used to make me stand in a courtyard when it snowed to toughen me up because I had the breathing-sickness as a child,” Korli told him sympathetically. “There’s no shame in having fear from that time. To this day, I can’t stand to be out in the snow if I can help it.”

Golldir’s smile was wan. “You’re kind, Companion.”

“As for this Vals Veran, a good crossbow bolt should fix the problem,” Korli continued dryly. “He’s violating Dunmeri tradition as much as he is pissing on Nord tradition. They honour their ancestors too – most of their ‘necromancy’ is using the ghosts of willing ancestors to protect their homes and cities.”

“Like a huscarl being buried with his Thane or Jarl?”

“I suppose so. I’m more familiar with Redguard practices myself as that’s where I did most of my mage-study, but…” Korli continued to unpick the usable rings from the rusty chainmail.

“Companions are allowed to use magic?” Golldir toasted some cheese and bread over the fire.

“I’m Eorlund Grey-Mane’s apprentice. Or, well, I suppose Journeyman’s more accurate since I just came back from my wander-years.”

“Wait, you’re that one?” he blurted. “The one who beat the shit out of Sigdrifa Stormsword at the summer Moot?”

Korli winced. “Yeah. It wasn’t as honourable as I’d intended, as it became more about beating the shit out of my abusive mother than actually avenging the dishonour she’d done to the people of Eastmarch.”

“Eh, I’d say it was two for the price of one,” Golldir assured her. “We all starved when she ruled, even the Nords.”

The next morning, after eating the last of the Silver-Hand’s supplies, they went up to Hillgrund’s Tomb. Korli was unsurprised to find Agna dead, though Golldir’s expression was twisted in anguish as he vowed vengeance, outrage giving him the last boost of courage he needed. They took a secret way into the inner sanctum and emerged into an elaborate tomb, where a Dunmer was busy raising the draugr.

“The dead should be made to serve the living, not the other way around!” he yelled as they burst into the tomb.

“I'll return my ancestors to Sovngarde, and you with them!” Golldir roared.

“Sovngarde is a myth, you s'wit! And now you can join your ancestors in service to me!”

“Battle-Cry, now,” Korli whispered as she readied her crossbow.

“GRAH-GRAAT!” Golldir yelled, the innate Shout given to all Nords by Kyne rolling through the chamber in a visible surge of energy to strike Vals Veran in the face. The Dunmer’s eyes widened and he pissed himself in fear. Then those eyes closed forever as Korli’s crossbow bolt took him in the gut.

They still had to fight the raised draugr but when it was done, Golldir held his iron axe, panting heavily. “Let me take care of my aunt Agna and the others,” he said. “Help yourself to Hillgrund’s grave goods.”

“I know the old rites of Kyne,” Korli offered gently. “I’m a ‘heathen’, as those Talosites in Windhelm would call us.”

He shook his head. “Thank you, but it’s my duty. I’ll meet you outside.”

Korli didn’t take anything from Hillgrund’s grave goods, instead waiting outside the tomb for Golldir to emerge. When he did so, there was a weary kind of peace in his expression.

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m a lumberjack by trade but… after this, I’m not sure I can just go to chop wood.”

She studied him. “When it counted, you fought past your fear and did honour to your ancestors. Jorrvaskr’s short of whelps at the moment. Have you considered becoming a Companion?”

“Me? A Companion?” he asked in disbelief. “I’m a lumberjack who’s scared of draugr-“

“And three years ago, I was a runaway from County Bruma who fled the Legion draft because she didn’t want to die for her family’s sins,” Korli interrupted. “Honour isn’t something you’re born to, Golldir. It’s something you earn with blood, sweat and tears, something you share with others like gold in a lean time. You fought alongside me today and overcame your fear to lay your ancestors to rest. If that isn’t Nord honour, then send me to Yngvild and call me a Shieldmaiden.”

He smiled incredulously. “You’re certain?”

Korli nodded. “I’m certain.”

“Then… I suppose I can take a shot at it.”


	4. Passing the Flame On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide and war crimes. Because we don’t have Alduin chowing down on souls in Sovngarde twelve years before canon, the situation isn’t quite as urgent and therefore the questline will be rearranged accordingly to accommodate the Forsworn Conspiracy and No One Escapes Cidhna Mine.
> 
> …

“Because the original bargain was made between the Glenmoril Matriarch and the Harbinger, I think it can only be renegotiated by their successors… or by the death of the Matriarch and the casting of her head into the Flame of the Harbinger,” Vilkas announced with a heavy sigh as the Circle met in the Underforge. “As you know, Kodlak’s wasting sickness has sapped most of his strength. He wouldn’t be able to make it to the coven, even if they’d let him find them.”

Korli, who’d returned from Valtheim Towers with another fragment of Wuuthrad and a new whelp named Golldir, tightened her mouth in frustration. “My _granma’s_ death is non-negotiable, Vilkas. Anyone feels otherwise will have to go through me and walk over my dead body to her.”

Two years ago, Vilkas might have considered beating her into the ground and doing as Kodlak commanded because he was certain the Harbinger was in the right. But… well. He still agreed with Kodlak’s decision to seek a cure and he despised the Glenmoril coven for tricking Terrfyg but he’d learned a lot more about the circumstances surrounding the Markarth Incident. Spiritual allegiances aside, Catriona had taken her position as High Priestess of Hircine in an open challenge and when it came to it, her honour prevented her from killing her own daughter. It was obvious who had formed the core of Korli’s own honour.

“No one will fight you, Shield-Sister.” Vilkas managed a wry smile. “Of us, me or Skjor could probably take you, and Aela is superior at hunting, but none of us would walk away intact. You’ve become as adept a fighter as you have a blacksmith. Athis tells me you’re almost his equal with one-handed weapons, and none can defeat you when it comes to the crossbow.”

Korli flushed with pleasure. “From the arms master of Jorrvaskr, that’s high praise. But I’ve used Clairvoyance to locate the last two shards of Wuuthrad. Kodlak keeps one in his bedside table… and the other lies somewhere in the Reach. I’m hoping it’s _not_ in the hands of a clan allied to Lost Valley, because it’ll be bloody awkward to fight the Briarheart and Matriarch for it.”

“There’s dissension among the Forsworn?” Athis asked in some surprise.

“The south and west hill-clans have always had roughly equal amounts of Nord and Breton blood; that’s how Madanach was able to roll over Jarl Hrolfdir’s forces, because for a good five or six years beforehand he’d sent his Nord cousins and clansfolk to infiltrate various positions in the Jarl’s government.” Korli’s expression was bleak in the light of the torches. “After everything went tits up and he was imprisoned, the Silver-Bloods purged most of the known Reacher Nords, sent their children to be raised as ‘proper Nords’ in the lowlands and the clans of the north and east did the rest out of bitterness for his failure.”

“Aye,” Vilkas agreed unhappily. “I’ve done my own research. You… One of us should have challenged your mother and killed her for it, because she was a great architect of that.”

“Oh yes. My mother and Thonar Silver-Blood get along quite well.” Korli gave the Circle all a frank, firm gaze. “We fucked up and we don’t know how deep the fuckup goes until… I don’t know.”

“We know,” Farkas rumbled. “Even Kodlak understands now.”

“Which is why I have come to a decision,” rumbled the Harbinger from the back entrance to the Underforge. Wheezing, he limped inside, and Vilkas went immediately to support him but was waved away.

“We weren’t meeting in secret,” Korli said slowly, only to receive a sweet smile from Kodlak.

“I know. I’ve been doing my own reading in the archives, those that can only be accessed by the Harbinger.” He slumped against the wall, Farkas and Vignar making room for him. “If the Harbinger doesn’t think they can do their duties, they may pass on the position to someone else.”

“Who, then? I’m nowhere ready and may never be ready-“

“There is no one else. Farkas is too kind and Vilkas too hot-headed.” Kodlak’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Skjor tends to favour pragmatism over honour, even if he doesn’t see it that way, and Aela is no leader. Vignar… forgive me, but you’re dabbling too much in politics for my liking. Athis, in a few decades you _might_ be ready, but it won’t be until Korli is no longer Harbinger.”

Athis shrugged. “Making a Dunmer Harbinger at the moment might get us raided by Stormcloaks. They’re already pissed off with us over Sigdrifa.”

Kodlak snorted. “Ulfric and Sigdrifa have been chastened. But first of all, it is given to the Harbinger to know his successor… and Korli, I dreamed of you before you came to Jorrvaskr. You know the Flame of the Harbinger gives us prescient abilities. I questioned Golldir extensively and what you have told him of honour… You are right. We have hoarded our honour and only one of us has dared to do what I should have been doing. The Harbinger has the right – the duty – to remind the Jarls and Thanes of their duties. That is why they stand equal to a Jarl and just below the High King in determining wergild.”

Korli was shaking her head. “I’m not even twenty-one-“

“You have corrected Companions older than you,” Kodlak interrupted wryly. “You stood before the Moot and dared to chastise someone who richly deserved it.”

“And that holmgang was more about personal vengeance rather than honour…”

“You don’t think your mother owed you a debt of honour?” Now Kodlak was amused. “But if you are uncomfortable, I will put it to the vote. Does anyone say nay to Korli becoming Harbinger?”

Vilkas’ heart ached for the old man. In this last decision, he had shown why Askar made him Harbinger. But he was right. So his voice was silent and no other member of the Circle spoke against it.

So it was that Kodlak kindled the Flame of the Harbinger in the pale blue fire sacred to the old gods and clasped Korli’s hands to pass it on. And she was unburned by the soul fire though it surrounded her and went through her. Vilkas saw her pupils flash red-green in the eerie glow and imagined the outline of a sinuous serpentine dragon around her compact form.

If she was the Last Dragonborn, as the prophecies indicated, then the end of days would come during her tenure as Harbinger. The Last Harbinger would lead the Companions out under the starry skies of Sovngarde as the Nords would prove their last, best worth against the World-Eater and all his ilk.

She closed her eyes as the Flame died down. “This… I didn’t want this. Not now, not with an oath on my hands. But if it’s my wyrd… All I can do is accept it.”

Then her eyes opened and in them was the wisdom of a thousand Harbingers before her. “Farkas will be my Axe-Bearer. He may be too kind as Kodlak says, but there is no Companion who has innately understood the charges of honour, self-reliance and mastery of war as he in my eyes.”

Skjor was the first to slap the stunned Farkas’ back and Vilkas was the first to cheer.

When the celebration died down, Korli’s smile was grim. “To the world, for the next few moons, Kodlak Whitemane is still Harbinger. I have an oath to fulfil, after all. But when I return with Wuuthrad’s shards and reforge it… then, my Shield-Siblings, then we will be whole.”


	5. Blood's Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide and war crimes. Fun’s about to start.

“Kyne’s tits, Kaie! Has my appearance changed so much in a bloody moon you’re taking pot-shots at me now?”

The next firebolt whizzed just past Korli’s head to splutter uselessly on the trunk of a nearby fire. Her cousin, wearing little more than fur, bones and her sacred tattoos, lowered her open hands as the flames in her palms died out. “ _Korli?_ Why in Hircine’s name are you wearing Shieldmaiden armour?”

“It existed before the Shieldmaidens stole it and it’ll exist after they’re just a footnote in some dusty archive,” she answered, removing her helmet. “Didn’t the hawk-totem carvings give it away? They look a lot different to bear, stag and wolf, you know.”

“Not from a distance and in uncertain light,” Kaie answered grimly.

“Shit. Well, this is going to make my trip to the Reach bloody awkward.” Korli rubbed her nose. “Is Granma still on a no-visitors policy?”

“For clan, of course not.” Kaie gave Korli an odd glance. “What was wrong with your Orcish armour?”

“I outgrew it in more ways than one.” Korli smiled wryly. “I’ll save the story for you and Granma. It’s going to make someone’s day, I hope.”

They wound their way through the trees up to Glenmoril Cave. “I’m surprised you’re here,” Korli noted. “Aren’t you usually based in Lost Valley?”

“The Matriarchs have been reading the stars and collectively shitting themselves, though they’re trying to hide it. First there was trouble when Kyne went into the Shadow constellation about a moon and a half ago…”

Korli rolled her eyes heavenwards. “That, I’m sad to say, was the result of the fine fuck-witted astrologers of the Academy of Mages in Elinhir. They decided to put me through the Star Ordeal – a test to face my darkest fear – and somehow managed to set the Apex Tower on fire. If it wasn’t for my dad’s friends in the Children of Satakal, I’d have been toast.”

“Star Ordeal?” Kaie asked curiously.

“Basically, they read your birthsign and put you through a test to test your weaknesses before they let you graduate from the Academy.” Korli shuddered. “My fear of dying unwanted and alone manifested as Alduin World-Eater. The bogeyman – or bogey-dragon – of the Nords that will feast on the souls of the heroic dead in Sovngarde at the end of days.”

“Ah.” Kaie drew out the syllable. “If Ulfric should die heroically, may his vileness choke this World-Eater.”

Korli chose not to comment on that. “So, other astrological issues? I’d repeat what Safiya said to the Dean of the Academy, but I’m not sure Forebear insults towards Crowns translate well outside of the Yokudan. They certainly don’t translate _politely_ …”

“Ha! I can imagine. She has the ability to tell someone to go to the Deadlands and have them looking forward to the journey.” She made a gesture as one of the witches popped her head out. “It’s okay. It’s Korli. She just made herself some new armour.”

“She damn well nearly got a fireball to the face,” the witch answered dryly. “I know bad life choices are endemic to the Lost Valley line, but don’t you think it’s a bit stupid to be wearing Shieldmaiden armour?”

“The Shieldmaidens hoarded the armour for themselves but they didn’t actually create it,” Korli answered with a sigh. “It’s in the old Atmorani style. You see a wolf-totem one, that belonged to a Companion, and I’d appreciate you sending it to Jorrvaskr.”

“Can’t they forge some for themselves?”

“Aside from Farkas, most of them can barely maintain their arms and armour,” Korli said dryly. “I’m the first smith other than Eorlund Grey-Mane to forge a set of totemic plate in over a hundred years.”

Kaie led her inside the cave complex, which was bigger than most outsiders realised. “The stars are uneasy and so the Matriarchs are uneasy,” she said softly. “Kyne has moved into the Tower constellation.”

“The Redguard reading of that would be prosperity and freedom,” Korli noted.

“I know. But… there will be a cost. Kyne always demands a cost for Her gifts. Masser was full and…” Kaie sighed. “It may demand a sacrifice – and I’m not talking about a few deer.”

“I don’t know. Kyne doesn’t exactly talk to me, you know.”

“I think She does. You just don’t always hear it with your ears.” They entered the chamber that Catriona called her own. It wasn’t even the biggest one, as the Hagraven had lost most of her arrogance over the past few years, but it was decorated with ancient idols, magical equipment and a comfortable nest. “Grandaunt-“

“I know. I Saw her coming.” The Hagraven turned from the alchemy table, on which a noxious mixture bubbled. “So. Harbinger.”

“It wasn’t _my_ idea,” Korli muttered.

“No, but it was always your doom once you joined Jorrvaskr.” Catriona smiled and gestured to the nest. “I know why you’ve come, granddaughter. You have a lot to tell us, don’t you?”

“I do.” And after the courtesies of meat and mead had been dispensed with, Korli related the events of the past two moons, from the Star Ordeal to the summer Moot to being named Harbinger by Kodlak. When she was done, Catriona steepled her claws and Kaie lounged back, both of them thoughtful.

“You may have broken your mother but the other Stormcloaks won’t take this lying down,” the Hagraven finally said. “When word gets out you’re the new Harbinger…”

“It will be as it will be,” Korli said quietly. “I’m more worried about this fragment of Wuuthrad and reforging the axe. The Dominion are drooling at an incipient rebellion – or what they think is one – and I want to put the fear of Ysgramor into them. Not the _best_ role model but we need time to prepare for the second Great War…”

“You’ll have trouble from other sources before then,” Catriona drawled.

“No doubt. Kaie told me the stars are foretelling something dire.”

“Maybe.” Catriona sighed. “If I could just give you the cure for lycanthropy, I would. But Hircine wants to see how far His hunting hounds will go to be free of Him – a hunt, if you will.”

“Kodlak’s too sick to travel,” Korli said softly. “I don’t think he has four moons to go. That’s why he stepped aside, you see, so I could renegotiate the bargain.”

She nodded. “But generations of Companions have hunted in Hircine’s name – most of them quite sincerely, in fact. Just give the whelp a choice in the matter and it’ll be done. Kodlak’s had his fun but now he fears to pay the piper.”

“I know,” she agreed. “But I owe him. It was his word that let me into Jorrvaskr when Skjor would have sent me to the Temple of Kynareth as a beggar.”

“So you’d assume his debt?”

“The paying of it.”

“Well, you have a few options. The simplest is to acquire a black soul. Hircine respects Kyne enough that He wouldn’t get too irritated if it was the soul of worthy prey.” Catriona blew through her steepled talons as Korli frowned. “But you’re old-Nord faith and therefore believe every soul’s a breath of Kyne.”

“Yeah,” Korli agreed. “Intellectually, there’s a few souls I wouldn’t cry to see in the Soul Cairn for eternity. But morally and ethically…”

“Another option is to hunt in Hircine’s name. He can’t take your soul but he’d be honoured enough by the action to release Kodlak as a boon.”

“If I had a couple more moons, I’d do it,” Korli answered. “But Kodlak’s fading fast.”

“Then all I can say is to do an act for your clan that will allow me to give you the cure as a boon,” Catriona finished. “And even then, Kodlak must still win his freedom – or have it won for him.”

Kaie stirred. “She’s clan, Granma. Can’t we just consider her beating the shit out of Sigdrifa as an act for the clan?”

“Kaie, my darling, that was the bare minimum expected of anyone from Lost Valley.” Catriona’s tone was wry. “Korli’s asking as Harbinger of the Companions, not as Korli mac Catriona. There’s a metaphysical difference that’s important – like Kaie the warleader asking something of the Matriarch instead of Kaie mac Fereda asking something of Grandaunt Catriona.”

“What would I need to do?” Korli asked. “I won’t murder and as a Companion, I really can’t break the laws of the land.”

Catriona’s smile was sad. “Go to Markarth. You’ll know what to do when you’re there.”


	6. One Thing at A Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and mentions of war crimes, imprisonment and genocide. The Forsworn Conspiracy and No One Escapes Cidhna Mine will play out differently as Korli is a known Companion of Jorrvaskr and has half a brain, lol.

They always said Riften was the rottenest city in Skyrim, but anyone who said that clearly hadn’t been to Markarth. Within moments of entering the city, Korli prevented an assassination and was told to move on by the guard. After accepting thanks and a gift from the red-haired Niben-woman who nearly died, she went to the Silver-Blood Inn to hire a room, and found herself stopped by a young Breton with a Reacher noble’s facial tattoos.

“Gods. A woman attacked right on the streets. Are you all right? Did you see what happened?” he asked, brown eyes scanning the marketplace warily.

“I stopped him. I didn’t realise the Forsworn were acting so openly,” Korli murmured.

“The Forsworn? Strange. Well, I hope the Eight give you more peace in the future, for what it's worth.” He pressed a note into her hand. “Oh, I think you dropped this. Some kind of note. Looks important.”

Then the young man blended back into the crowd and Korli cracked open the note. Catriona had told her that she’d receive the task she had to complete to get the cure for Kodlak. This had to be it.

_“Meet me in the Shrine of Talos after dark.”_ Simple enough. She could do that.

For the rest of the day, Korli sold the pelts and loot she’d collected on her way up from Falkreath, hired a room at the Silver-Blood Inn and made a study of the city’s mood and people. In the late afternoon, she advised a mercenary named Vorstag and an out-of-work porter named Cosnach that the Companions were looking for new whelps after buying them both drinks. She also learned Bothela mac Grainne was the Hag of Stone Streets Clan and made a living selling virility potions to Igmund and his Steward and that Moth, Understone Keep’s blacksmith, wanted a Daedra heart. Tomorrow, she could handle all of that and make some contacts.

An hour after sunset, when the streets were full of people going home, she went to the Shrine of Talos – and sure enough, the young man was waiting there. “You're an outsider. You're dangerous-looking. You'll do,” he said hastily.

“I’ll do?” Korli asked, eyebrows rising.

“You want answers? Well so do I. So does everyone in this city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess,” he said bitterly.

“That’s… interesting,” Korli observed. “Have the Forsworn subverted city guards? I know that’s what Madanach did in his uprising.”

“This has been going on for years. And all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring me.” He was wringing his hands now.

“You’ve looked into these murders?” Now Korli was beginning to realise he wasn’t one of the Forsworn – but this had to be the task Catriona set her.

“Yes. It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Rare for anyone who isn't a Nord. He was killed. Guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn. I've been trying to find out why ever since. Gotten nowhere so far, and then I got married. Have a child of my own on the way. I swore I was going to just give up, for my child's sake, but it's like my father's ghost is haunting me. Asking me ‘Why?’”

Korli nodded. “I see. Well, given I’m dealing with some very dangerous and corrupt elements, here is my suggestion: take your wife and leave this city. I was given this task by someone, or it is somehow related to the task I must complete, but you will only get in the way. Go to Whiterun, to the Grey-Manes or the Companions, and tell them that Korli sent you. There’s work in the city if you want it.”

“By the gods, you’re the Companion who defeated Sigdrifa Stormsword in a holmgang!” His gaze lit up with hope. “You’re certain you can help me?”

“I am, but you need to leave, preferably tonight or tomorrow morning.” Korli sighed. “Either the Silver-Bloods or the Forsworn will come for me and it won’t be pretty.”

He nodded quickly. “Old gods with you!”

“I hope someone is,” she said with a sigh. “Because this is going to piss off a lot of people.”

…

Thonar allowed himself a curse after Yngvar delivered his report. It seemed that Korli Grey-Mane had walked right into Markarth and the trap they’d set… only to absently dismantle the whole thing while digging around the city by investigating the attempted murder of that Imperial spy. The woman had inherited her mother’s drive and efficiency but matched them with a charisma all of her own. Within a day – a day! – she had made a name for herself in Markarth by running errands and providing necessary materials for Moth and buying drinks at the pub. One act for the Jarl’s court and buying a house later, she could become a Thane.

“Are the Silver Hand settled in their new base?” he asked his brother testily after Thongvor came home. “Our trap for that mongrel bitch failed and she’s coming perilously close to uncovering our influence in the city.”

“You’re joking,” Thongvor retorted in disbelief.

“I wish I was.”

His brother swore. “I’ll tell Raerek that we think Hrolfdir’s shield is at the Silver Hand base alongside other Nord treasures like the fragment of Wuuthrad. That’ll get her out of Markarth and hopefully dead.”

“Do so. I need to have a chat with our pet warlord. His Forsworn need a new target.” Thonar swore again. “We can’t frame the bitch by killing off that loudmouth Eltrys. He’s taken his wife and took the carriage to Whiterun after Korli paid for their fare. Gods-fucking- _dammit_ , I could curse Sigdrifa and her stupidity at the moment.”

“I know what you mean.” Thongvor sighed. “When she’s dead, we may have to take command of the Stormcloaks.”

_It took you long enough to realise that._ “One thing at a time, my brother, one thing at a time.”


	7. The Silver-Blood Conspiracy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment and mentions of genocide, mutilation, war crimes, torture and child abuse. The next couple chapters will be ugly, folks.

Korli opened one eye; the other one was glued shut by blood, mud and the blow that knocked her out. Bound, wearing her homespun tunic and breeks, in the dark dank cellar of the fortress where the last fragment of Wuuthrad and Hrolfdir’s shield supposedly was. Torture implements and the mutilated corpses of man, mer and werewolf alike told her where she was.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

“No shit,” she croaked. “I suppose you’re gonna tell me about the delights that await me if I don’t cooperate?”

A wry laugh was her answer. “I won’t insult either of us by doing that. You’re not a werewolf. We tested you while you were unconscious.”

“How kind of you.”

The speaker emerged from the darkness. Medium height, tousled red hair, hard green eyes. “I have no wish to kill an honourable, if misguided woman. The Companions will need people like you when we rebuild Jorrvaskr after its purging.”

“Consider yourself another Kyrnil Long-Nose, do you?” Korli asked sardonically.

The woman looked confused. “Who?”

“I’d have thought a schismatic band of Companions hell-bent on returning us to the old ways would know who Kyrnil was,” Korli answered quietly. “I’m the first to admit the Companions have made mistakes since Terrfyg’s bargain… but none of _us_ have tortured, maimed and murdered innocents, even those who took to the beast blood.”

Her wrists had been shackled low to the wall and from the feel of the metal, it was rusty. They hadn’t dosed her with magicka-draining poison. From here, she could see her arms and armour.

“Krev was a fanatic – son of a failed Shieldmaiden, one who received support from your mother,” the redhead said tightly. “If we have forgotten so much, join us and teach us! The Harbinger will need an Axe-Bearer when we retake Jorrvaskr, which glorious day is near. Who better than the Stormsword’s daughter?”

Korli smiled darkly. “The Harbinger already has her Axe-Bearer.”

“I don’t understand.”

Korli invoked a Cloak spell that drew on the natural forces of decay, rusting and ruining anything that was metal, as the Silver Hand leader stepped back. “The Harbinger is _me_ and my Axe-Bearer is Farkas.”

She wrenched her wrists free of the rusty chains and cast Ironflesh as the redhead drew her silver sword. “Once you might have had honour, but you have lost your way. I don’t know what trap you thought to set – to somehow gain the powers of the Harbinger? Ha! That can only be passed through the Flame of the Harbinger and Kodlak did so a week ago.”

“Kodlak is alive!” she snapped. “You’re a foul witch of Hircine.”

“No,” Korli said softly. “I am the whirlwind that you have reaped from the storm you did sow.”

A flex of Telekinesis brought her shortsword to her hand as lightning blossomed in the other. She cast Lightning Cloak and fell upon the Silver Hand leader, who screamed alarum for the others to come. At her first wound, a red haze veiled her vision, and she lost track of her actions after that.

She awoke again, hours later, in a pallet with Vorstag bandaging her wounds as Cosnach looted the dead. “You should have waited for us to join you,” the blond Nord said tersely. “You damned near died and while fifteen foes is an impressive number to boast of to Tsun at the Whalebone Bridge, it won’t make up for the fact you’d be _dead_.”

“I’d be… the first… Harbinger to go to… Sovngarde in a long time,” Korli said weakly as she sat up. “Fragments, shield?”

“Got ‘em.” Cosnach gestured to a burlap sack. “You should rest.”

“No time,” Vorstag said grimly. “Drink this potion and get dressed. Things were tense in Markarth before we left, like the air before a great storm, and I’ve got the feeling we need to get back quickly before it breaks.”

She obeyed and was still weak as a new-born kitten. But she was able to trudge outside and mount a horse with Cosnach holding her in place, Vorstag jumping on the other with the ease of a professional rider.

They rode into Karthwasten around sunset and were confronted by the hetman being abused by four Silver-Blood mercenaries. “Fuck,” Vorstag muttered. “It’s Atar and his goons.”

“I want you sellswords out of my mine,” said the hetman flatly.

“Watch your tongue, native. We'll leave when we're sure there are no Forsworn here,” sneered the mercenary.

“Oh, and when would that be, I wonder? When I sell my land to the Silver-Bloods?”

“The Silver-Bloods have made you a very generous offer for this pile of dirt. I suggest you take it.”

“Hey Atar!” called out Vorstag as he dismounted. “Run out of folk to bully in Markarth so you’re branching out to the hinterlands?”

“Get fucked, Vorstag,” the chief mercenary said in a deceptively pleasant tone. “You’re no better than the rest of us.”

“I don’t work for the Silver-Bloods. That puts me miles above you.”

Korli dismounted slowly, landing heavily. “Atar, right?”

“Yes.” Atar peered at her. “You’re that Companion bitch Thonar wants dead.”

“I’m not a Companion bitch, I am _the_ Companion bitch, and ‘Harbinger’ to the likes of you,” she said icily. “I’ve had a very frustrating day and my dear old ma isn’t here to use as a punching bag. I’m going to give you and your goons to the count of five to get going before I kill you.”

“She’s already killed fifteen Silver Hand today,” Vorstag said with a smile. “Cosnach and I got the other ten. You four cunts won’t be much of an effort after that.”

Atar smirked. “She’s half-dead and Cosnach’s a pissant fighter. I’m going to feed your remains to the pigs-“

“GRAH-GRAAT!” Korli roared, invoking the Battle-Cry. The very hills surrounding Karthwasten rang with the echo of it, seemingly shaking, and Atar tripped over a rock as he stumbled back in fear.

Vorstag was on him, sword swinging down and coming up red as the mercenary’s head tumbled free from his shoulders. “Grah-Graat!” he yelled, striking two of the three who remained, and Cosnach’s bow killed them with an unmusical twang.

The last, undaunted, marched on Vorstag but was struck by an orichalcum throwing axe in the head from the female Orc miner.

“Sorry,” she said apologetically to the old hetman. “I was waiting for a distraction.”

“It’s alright, Lash,” he said weakly. “I think our friends have taken care of the problem.”

“For now,” she said darkly. “You know the Silver-Bloods will send Yngvar and the guard next time.”

“Damn, Korli, your Battle-Cry’s bigger than mine,” Vorstag complained as he began to loot the dead.

“Well, she _is_ the Harbinger,” Cosnach drawled.

“Harbinger?!” the old hetman blurted. “I thought Kodlak-“

“He passed it on to me, and I’ve kept it to myself because I had an unfinished oath to fulfil,” Korli interrupted wearily. “Can we borrow some floorspace? I don’t think I’m going to make it to Markarth without falling off my horse and-“

“Of course you can stay with us! I follow the laws of hospitality!” snapped the hetman. “Maybe my actions will shame that bastard Thonar into acting more like a Nord should.”

Lash snorted. “A racist conquering asshole? He’s already got that down pat.”

The Nord miner sighed. “Korli and Vorstag are what Nords should be, not the fucking Silver-Bloods.”

The hetman, whose name was Ainethach, revealed that the Silver-Bloods’ corruption ran deeper than anyone realised. “Why the fuck hasn’t the Jarl done anything?” she demanded.

“Because Igmund’s a fucking idiot,” Ainethach said bluntly. “And everyone is too scared to publicly accuse the Silver-Bloods of anything.”

Korli buried her face in her hands. She was exhausted. “Here’s the thing: Forsworn agents are killing people in the streets of Markarth… but those people pissed off the Silver-Bloods. What in Oblivion is going on?”

“That I do not know,” Ainethach said sadly.

She pushed her hair back. “Well, those Silver Hands knew I was coming. They’d set up the trap to catch me. Igmund’s Steward asked me to recover Hrolfdir’s shield from unclean hands…”

“Madanach tried to negotiate with Hrolfdir, but Silver-Blood mercenaries attacked Serpent’s Bluff Redoubt and butchered all the civilians while the Ard Ri was meeting with the Jarl…” Ainethach said with a sigh.

“I see my mother isn’t the only one cribbing from Talos,” she said, wiping at her streaming eyes. “This picture being painted isn’t a good one, but I need to sleep. I nearly died today.”

“I understand, Harbinger.” Ainethach paused. “But what do you plan to do?”

“What Companions do best. Teach the bastards the meaning of honour.”


	8. Sacrifice of a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, genocide, war crimes and religious conflict.

“Thongvor Silver-Blood. I found something that belonged to you in Karthwasten.”

Korli Grey-Mane, now bearing a fresh scar bisecting her right eyebrow and cheek but just missing a blue-green eye, upended a bloodied sack to let Atar’s head roll out. The patriarch of the Silver-Blood family stepped back in horror as gasps erupted in the Jarl’s court. Only Ainethach, the Orcish wench, the only sellsword who didn’t work for the Silver-Bloods and some bloody native were unfazed.

“That man was a loyal retainer!” he spat, collecting his wits. “Is there no end to your malice?”

“If you call righteous outrage at your blatant corruption ‘malice’, you need a divine bitch-slap from Talos,” was her cold answer. “Extortion, collaboration with a sworn enemy of the Jarl, assassinations of ordinary citizens, mistreatment of prisoners, murder and general mayhem… You and Thonar have been busy little boys. No wonder you and my mother are such grand friends.”

“Lies!” Thongvor grated.

“Jarl Igmund, I have your father’s shield. It wasn’t located in a Forsworn redoubt like your uncle told me, but in the bastion of a deluded group of bandits who believed themselves to be the rightful heirs of Ysgramor,” Korli said to the weak-chinned man slouched on the Mournful Throne. “If it wasn’t for Vorstag and Cosnach, I’d be dead.”

“We are grateful,” Igmund said, waving a hand in what he imagined was a regal manner. “If you wish to become a Thane of my court-“

“An honour I must respectfully decline, as the Companions rarely take a rank of nobility that may clash with their duties,” Korli interrupted with an inclination of her head.

“You dare interrupt the Jarl!” Thongvor snapped.

“I’ll get back to you in a minute,” Korli said absently. “I just wish to ask Raerek where his information concerning the shield came from, if that’s permissible?”

Igmund chewed his lip and nodded. “Of course.”

Raerek sighed. “There’s little enough to tell, Korli. Thongvor told me that’s where a mage he’d hired found it. I trust you came out alright?”

“I’m alive, with the last piece of Wuuthrad to hand, but I have some unfinished business here with the Silver-Bloods.” Korli pulled off her gauntlet and threw it at Thongvor’s feet. “I accuse Thongvor Silver-Blood of treason to this Hold and its people, as attested to by Ainethach of Karthwasten, Lash gro-Dushnikh and Nepos the Nose, to be proven in trial by combat.”

“The words of natives and Orcs don’t count in this court!” Thongvor spat. “But I will gladly take your head for the insults you’ve dealt my family and the Stormcloaks.”

“So taxpaying citizens of the Reach have no right to justice in the Jarl’s court?” Ainethach asked in some surprise. “You only own _half_ the Reach, Thongvor, not all of it.”

“But we will when the Stormcloaks rise!” Thongvor said, drawing his sword. “I will start with _you_ , Korli! No wonder your mother disowned you, for you are a disgrace to all Nords!”

“You openly admit to treason in my Hold?” Igmund demanded, sitting up. “I’ll mount your head on my wall! Argis, bring me his head!”

“I think Korli’s about to do the deed herself, my Jarl,” said the young tawny-haired warrior, his one eye gleaming with satisfaction.

“Glory or Sovngarde!” Thongvor charged… and tripped over Korli’s gauntlet at his feet, cracking himself half-senseless on the stone.

A raucous shout of laughter came from the crowd as he struggled to his feet. Then something ice-cold pierced his throat; it was an ice spear, long as a man was tall.

“There are some pleasures,” observed the cold silky cruel voice of Madanach as death took the elder Silver-Blood, “That I can’t help but keep to myself.”

…

Madanach allowed himself to savour the stupefied expression on Thongvor’s face and the shocked silence of Igmund’s court. To compound it, he threw Thonar’s head and the bloodied journal of the younger Silver-Blood at Igmund’s feet. He’d probably die for this stunt, but well, he could read the signs of the stars as readily as any Matriarch. Kyne was in the Tower and Masser was full. It was the Ard Ri’s duty to die for his people, the given death so that others might live and thrive.

“My people have cleared the way to the gates,” he continued pleasantly. “But for my sons, for my people and for the treacheries these two inflicted on the Sunset Lands, it was my duty to collect their heads. Thonar kept everything in writing.”

“Argis, give me his head!” ordered Igmund shrilly, the sharp stink of urine filling the air. Madanach was obscurely flattered he’d made the Jarl piss his pants.

“Hold.” That was Catriona’s granddaughter. “Madanach executed two traitors to the Reach.”

“And murdered two dozen people on the orders of the Silver-Bloods,” remarked Fasendil, the Altmer Imperial Legate, after picking up the journal and reading it.

“I did,” Madanach admitted. “I was given the choice between cooperating and living or dying in the bowels of Cidhna. I’m no Companion to rather die than be dishonoured.”

He stepped forward. “I’m willing to die for my people, Igmund. That’s the bargain an Ard Ri makes with the land when he’s crowned. But are you as loyal to the Reach? Would you swear, blood on sword, to allow my people their religious freedoms in return for my life?”

“Some of your religious practices are repugnant,” Fasendil observed.

“Yes, they are. We can adapt.” Madanach smiled gently. “All I have ever wanted was an end to the exploitation of my people. I don’t think I’m asking much.”

“I’ll kill you for my father’s death-“ Igmund snarled, but was silenced by Fasendil’s cough.

“Thonar set up you and your father with the assistance of Publius Gracchus,” the Legate said quietly. “He had soldiers attack Serpent’s Bluff Redoubt while you were meeting with Hrolfdir and when word got back to Reachwater Cave…”

“I killed him for being a lying bastard,” Madanach finished in a shocked whisper.

“Did the Stormsword have a hand in this?” Korli asked the Legate.

“No, for a change,” Fasendil replied. “Congratulations on becoming Harbinger, by the way. I hope it sticks in the Stormcloaks’ craw for years to come.”

“Well done, grand-cousin!” Madanach congratulated Korli. “May you stick it to Ulfric and Sigdrifa for many years to come.”

“Gods,” Igmund said, rubbing his temples. “What do I do?”

“You have two choices,” Korli said gravely before Madanach could speak. “You could order Madanach’s death and continue oppressing the Reachfolk, which will only breed a new Forsworn rebellion. Or you can reach out – pun intended – to the Ard Ri and try to find a new way of peace and cooperation.”

“Is she really the Harbinger?” Igmund asked Fasendil plaintively.

“She is,” rumbled some giant of a Nord with shaggy dark hair, accompanied by Aela the Huntress, as the crowd parted for them. “We came lookin’ for her.”

Korli licked her lips. “Farkas Axe-Bearer. I’ve found the last fragment of Wuuthrad.”

“I know.” Farkas sighed. “Korli, Jorrvaskr was attacked. Kodlak was killed defendin’ it.”

“The Silver _fucking_ Hand,” she growled. The resemblance to Catriona in a cold rage was uncanny.

“Yeah.”

Madanach studied Igmund. Gods of Left and Right, he was a weak spineless noodle of a Jarl. But if he could be managed…

“I wager I’ve done no worse than any of your Thanes,” he said smoothly. “We both got screwed over by the Silver-Bloods. Wouldn’t it be a fine thing to piss on their memory by becoming allies? You marry one of our women, the child becomes Jarl, Reachfolk get a voice again…”

Igmund smiled coldly. “I suppose it would be. But there will be no more Ard Ri business-“

“The Jarl of the Reach can be crowned in Nord and Reacher rites, therefore making them both,” Madanach suggested calmly. What was his pride and prestige to the safety of the Reach?

“I can do that.” Igmund smiled. “The woman better be pretty.”

“I have several very beautiful relatives, most of whom would rather live in the Jarl’s palace than a goatskin tent,” Madanach assured him. _And become Regent for your heir if you prove difficult or a bad husband…_

Korli stirred, though her blue-green gaze was stricken. “So you sacrifice the Juniper Crown for the Reach’s prosperity, Madanach. Not all sacrifice is death, for Kyne is the goddess of beginnings as well as endings…”

“Go bury your Kodlak, Korli,” he told her gently. “Paint the walls with Silver Hand blood as any daughter of the Reach should.”

She joined her Companions and nodded. “I will visit… after.”

“Go.” Madanach turned towards Igmund. “The Jarl and I have much to discuss…”


	9. Glory to the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for grief and mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. My herbal cure for lycanthropy isn’t canon, it’s just something I came up with.

“So the Silver-Bloods are dead. This makes my day.” Catriona finished decocting the potion of canis root, skeever charcoal and mudcrab chitin she’d mixed in front of Korli, Aela and Farkas. “I hope Madanach knows what he’s doing.”

“Can you cure Kodlak?” Aela asked. “The old man… deserves his last wish.”

“I can. Canis root, skeever charcoal and mudcrab chitin will force the wolf-spirit out of the person… but they’ll need to have it driven away by a friend. Hircine won’t relinquish a soul that easily, not one that’s enjoyed His gifts for many years.” She clasped the vial into Korli’s hands, beady pale green eyes gentle. “Will you end the bargain?”

Korli shook her head. “No. A werewolf pack that maintains its sentience in beast form is too potent a protector for Skyrim. But now, they’ll have a choice.”

Catriona smiled. “You’ll be a wise Harbinger.”

“If I’d stayed at Jorrvaskr-“

“The Silver Hand would have come regardless.” She then handed over a bone whistle. “This will let you summon spectral wolves to help you in battle. Next time you go into a fight, take your pack with you! The wolf was never meant to stand alone and neither was the Harbinger.”

Korli flushed. “You’re right, Granma.”

After farewells were made, they left the cave complex to where Cosnach and Vorstag waited with the horses. Despite her sorrow, Korli smiled to see the two men close, foreheads touching. Markarth… Well, Markarth was in the hands of others now. Most of the Silver Hand were dead and the Silver-Bloods, the one or two who remained, were utterly ruined. She had Jorrvaskr to manage, a battleaxe to reforge and a Harbinger to save.

They returned to Whiterun just before dawn of the next morning. They’d already set up the pyre for Kodlak and as word rippled out from Jorrvaskr, various citizens and even Jarl Balgruuf, a remote golden figure she’d barely interacted with, came with his pregnant wife Svanhild. Korli shivered, remembering the woman’s prophecy about her. Kin-strife and blood would tell and worse to come than fire from heaven. Some of it had come to pass. But how would fire fall from heaven?

She took the torch from Eorlund and let the tears fall down her face. Two wasted years of conflict with Kodlak, who’d been something of a grandfather to her, all because she was certain she was right. “Before the ancient flame we grieve…”

“We grieve!” the other Companions shouted.

“At this loss… we weep,” Farkas said next.

“We weep!”

“For the fallen… we shout!” Vilkas spoke emphatically.

“We shout!”

“And for ourselves… we take our leave,” Aela finished.

Korli set the torch to the flame. “His spirit is departed. Circle, wait for me in the Underforge. I have a battleaxe to reforge.”

She gathered the fragments of Wuuthrad as Eorlund took his place at the bellows. “The flames of a hero can reforge the shattered,” he quoted. “The flames of Kodlak shall fuel the rebirth of Wuuthrad. It is time, Korli, to make your masterpiece.”

What followed was gruelling hours of work as she folded ebony and steel together, quenched it in water salted by her tears, kept the metal hot by chanting ‘Yol’ over and over again, and sunk every part of her grief and power into the battleaxe. Eorlund had already carved a new shaft with a branch of the new Gildergreen at its core and carved it with blessings of Kyne, the Mother of Men and Beasts, the true patron goddess of the Nords.

When she pulled the axe-head from the quenching trough for the last time, the screaming elf-face had become the enigmatic hawk-mask of Kyne with outstretched wings. “Did I reforge it… or make a new weapon from its ruins?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Wuuthrad was forged in grief, rage and tears,” Eorlund observed soberly. “You have reforged it in grief, love and tears. It’s a weapon to protect the Nords, not to avenge them.”

Korli nodded, heaving a heavy sigh. “Come on. We need to figure out how to cure Kodlak.”

The others were gathered in the Underforge as asked. “Harbinger,” Vilkas greeted gravely. “We must avenge Kodlak.”

“No, we need to free Kodlak first, then we can take care of the Silver Hand forever and aye on the way back,” Korli answered. “Granma gave me the cure. But… how will it help him in the afterlife?”

“The Flame of the Harbingers was kindled in the Tomb of Ysgramor,” Vilkas told her. “If we cast the cure on that, it will summon Kodlak and the wolf-spirit.”

“’There the souls of Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel’,” Aela quoted.

“We have Wuuthrad and I have the cure,” Korli said. “Let’s go.”

“For Kodlak!” declared Farkas, a cry quickly taken up by the others.

“For Kodlak,” she whispered as they prepared to leave.

…

Aela and Skjor were the last two to remain with Korli as she cast the cure into the Flame of the Harbinger, bringing forth the wolf-spirit that kept Kodlak from Sovngarde, and it was Skjor who banished the spirit back to Hircine. “He’s free,” the older warrior said simply.

“To enjoy a mead-swilling afterlife,” Aela said softly. “I hope it’s worth it.”

“For him, it would be.” Skjor produced a vial from his beltpouch. “Let’s see if this was a one-shot.”

“Skjor?” Aela yelped. “What are you-?”

“I’ve grown weary of hunting in Hircine’s name,” the Companion said as he uncorked the vial. “I’ve revelled in it, killed many foes for it, but this old wolf is done with it. I have no mate and you’re the new pack leader. Most of my friends are in Sovngarde… and I think I want to meet them there.”

He downed the vial’s contents and a reddish wolf-spirit appeared. One blow of Korli’s shortsword and it was banished, the tortured lines in Skjor’s expression easing to relief.

“Harbinger. Thank you.” He sighed and looked at the Flame of the Harbinger. “You made me reconsider a lot of things and… I was a terrible Axe-Bearer.”

“You were,” Korli agreed, too exhausted to be diplomatic. “You should have compensated for Kodlak’s flaws, not used them to try and push your own agenda.”

Skjor nodded soberly. “I’ll be going to Cyrodiil. There’s an old friend I want to look up and bring back to Jorrvaskr. Your uncle.”

“Why?” Korli asked. “I mean, he’d be welcome, but can the Order of the Circle spare him?”

“Because Irkand’s never had a chance to live with honour.” Skjor sighed again. “There’s other reasons too. I need to consider them.”

She nodded. “Well, once we’ve dealt with the Silver Hand, you’ll be free to go.”

Skjor’s smile was grim. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”


	10. A Piece of Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, emotional trauma, corpse desecration and child abuse/neglect/abandonment. Since there’s about twelve years to go on canon, there will be one or two bridging fics (including Skjor/Irkand) and some massive timeskips.

_“Kodlak did not care for vengeance.”_

Farkas had said that after they’d purged Driftshade Refuge of the last Silver Hand remnants and as always, he’d been right. Vengeance might be cathartic in the long run but in the end, all that was left was the hollowed-out feeling after a fever broke yet before one recovered their strength. So it was Korli sent most of the Circle home, keeping Skjor by her side, and made her way up to Windhelm along the coastline of the Sea of Ghosts from Ysgramor’s Tomb.

“Do you think we’ll have any trouble?” the former werewolf asked.

“No. Ulfric’s pissy but he’s not stupid. He should know the depth of the Silver-Bloods’ actions during the Markarth Incident. It won’t absolve him and Mother, not entirely, but it might give them some context on how it was doomed from the start.” She sighed, breath puffing white in northern Skyrim’s endless cold. “I need to face Mother as Harbinger, to put things to rest, before I return to Jorrvaskr and guide the rest of the Companions.”

During the long cold walk they saw things she’d only ever heard about, including the legendary sea-ghosts that bewitched Yngol at the tomb built just outside of Windhelm, where she reclaimed the ancient warrior’s stalhrim-banded helmet. Maybe that trip to Solstheim, when things were settled down at Jorrvaskr, could be feasible. She still wanted to learn the secrets of the sacred ice…

Windhelm was more cosmopolitan than she realised, the Nord and Dunmer population interspersed with the odd Redguard, Breton, Bosmer and even three Altmer in the marketplace. No Khajiit, but the cat-folk of Elseweyr were banned from most Skyrim cities, and the Argonians lived on the docks. The Cyrods she could see had the look of Bruma folk and there was a lone Orc from Narzulbur haggling with the local blacksmith about the price of ore.

“Traditionally, we could claim hospitality at the Palace of the Kings,” Skjor observed. “But for the sake of diplomacy, Candlehearth Hall would be the better option.”

Candlehearth Hall was larger than most inns and named for the magical candle that burned above the, well, hearth in the common room. “Permanent stasis enchantment powered by the drawing of ambient heat from the fireplace,” Korli noted professionally on examining it. “Someone was showing off when they did this.”

“I see your time in Elinhir was spent well,” Skjor noted.

“You’d be surprised how much of what Eorlund and I do in the wonder-smithing is related to Alteration and Destruction as well as alchemy and enchanting,” she answered.

Elda Early-Dawn, the innkeeper, looked askance at them as they approached the bar and Korli asked for two rooms. “Ulfric gives hospitality to Companions at the Palace,” she pointed out.

“Given the last time I was in a room with my mother, I beat the living shit out of her in front of the Jarls, I don’t think it would be tactful to stay in her home until we have a good talk,” Korli told her dryly. “Skjor and I just need beds for the night, ma’am.”

“Great good gods, you’re that one!” Elda said, her eyes widening. “Sigdrifa’s kept to herself these past few moons. If she isn’t in the Palace, she’s at the Temple of Talos. Probably there now if you want to talk to her on the quiet. There’ll only be Lortheim and Jora, the priests.”

“Not tonight. It’s been a long walk from the Pale. How much for the rooms?”

Before dawn the next day, Korli rose, donned her homespun tunic and breeks, and left a note for Skjor under his door before going to the Temple of Talos. She had dim memories of the Great Chapel of Bruma and wondered how Skyrim’s version differed; the chapel in Markarth had been desecrated by the Thalmor.

Dark and gloomy like all of Windhelm’s architecture – a reflection of Ysgramor’s rage and grief, she supposed – it was dominated by the steel axe that once belonged to Shor before Talos usurped it and the depiction of the Hero-God was that of a warrior with his foot on the neck of a serpentine creature. There was no sign of the shrewd ruler revered by Cyrods here, only the hardened warlord who put the Reach to the torch and sword.

“Welcome, child of Talos. How may we assist you?” A robed Nord woman emerged from behind the shrine. “We don’t normally see Redguards here.”

“Given that Hammerfell was the only one to thumb their noses at Talos and win themselves a better position in the Empire, I’m not surprised,” Korli answered wryly. “But it was my father who was the Redguard; my mother was a Kreathling Nord.”

“Oh dear.” The priestess wrung her hands. “Are you here to…?”

“I made my point clear at the summer Moot,” Korli said with a sigh. “Skjor and I were passing through, and I wanted to see an intact Temple of Talos. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

“I think, Harbinger, trouble follows you wherever you go,” the priestess said dryly, recovering herself. “Your mother’s still asleep. She’s… had to re-evaluate many of her choices.”

“That was sort of the point of the holmgang. I didn’t approach it in perfect honour, I’ll admit, but since she seemed to respond better to force…” Korli folded her arms and sighed again. “It was cathartic, I’ll admit. But vengeance leaves one hollow and unless you move on, there’s no healing the scar.”

“An unexpected thing for a Companion to say,” the priestess noted.

“If you’re surprised by it, maybe you haven’t met too many Companions. Kodlak didn’t care for vengeance and I find myself in the same boat.”

The priestess shrugged. “As you will. I advise you to visit the Palace of the Kings, as the Harbinger not stopping in and speaking to the Jarl would be an insult.”

“I was going there anyway.”

_Depressing place,_ she thought five minutes later as she entered the Palace of the Kings. _No wonder Ulfric and Mother have issues._

“The Jarl doesn’t hold audiences until three hours past dawn,” said the rangy blond - Ralof, if she recalled correctly – who was eating at one of the trestle tables with Galmar Stone-Fist. “Come back then.”

“Silfnar, bring us some mead and meat for the Harbinger,” Galmar ordered one of the servants. “Let it not be said that Ulfric’s household failed in its duty to a guest.”

“I see news precedes me,” Korli noted as Ralof choked on his mead. “But… juice or milk, some bread and cheese, please. I don’t drink mead until after lunch.”

“Was there any other choice?” Galmar asked as the servant went down one corridor near the table. “The rest of the Circle-“

“Are as they are and I’ll thank you to keep anything the Silver-Bloods may have told you to yourselves,” Korli interrupted harshly. “They laid a trap with enemies of the Companions to _kill me_ , Galmar. They… well, I’ve read Thonar’s journal, and he betrayed a lot of people – even Ulfric and Mother. Hrolfdir was set up to be murdered by Madanach after the Silver-Bloods massacred a camp of Forsworn civilians and Thonar was working with Publius Gracchus to use the crisis to take control of the Reach.”

She held up a finger as Galmar opened his mouth and Ralof choked on his mead a second time. “That doesn’t excuse what happened in Markarth. But Ulfric, Igmund and Madanach can work it out for yourselves, for all I care.”

Galmar huffed but settled down. “I’ll take your word for it. _Your_ honour, at least, is unquestioned.”

The servant arrived with milk, flatbread and goat’s cheese as Korli took a seat at the table. “We don’t have juice,” he said nervously.

“I did ask for milk if there was no juice. Thank you,” Korli told him.

Skjor arrived shortly after, wearing his wolf plate, and raised a hand to Galmar. “I see there’s no blood on the walls,” he drawled.

“Wait until Sigdrifa’s awake,” Ralof countered.

“I’m not here to fight,” Korli said firmly.

Next to join them was a leaner, slightly younger version of Bjarni who wore his sable hair relatively short for an Old Holder and an Amulet of Stendarr. “Egil, come meet your big sister Korli,” Galmar called.

Egil gave her a critical glance out of vivid blue-green eyes. “The heathen?”

Korli sighed. “The _Harbinger_. And I’m no heathen. I just worship an older version of Kynareth.”

“Keeper Carcette says you can’t drag people kicking and screaming to the Divines, so I won’t try,” Egil answered as he sat down, accepting milk, cheese and flatbread from the servant.

Korli refrained from commenting as Ralof kept on choking on his food. She wouldn’t argue with a ten-year-old.

“So… have you found the bastards who killed Kodlak Whitemane?” Galmar asked after an awkward silence.

“We came back from killing them,” Skjor assured him cheerfully. “We sent the rest of the Circle back to Jorrvaskr. Once again, we are whole.”

“The remnant of those who tried to kill me in the Reach,” Korli added. “I killed a lot of them and the whelps Cosnach and Vorstag got the rest.”

“Fifteen, my agents told me, and you went berserk,” Galmar rumbled.

“I _do_ have some distant Orcish ancestry – a great-great-great-grandfather,” Korli agreed. “But I suspect it was more owing to the gifts of the Madgoddess than anything else. Most of her descendants are capable of berserker rage when pushed into a corner.”

“Or a cold one,” Skjor agreed. “I once saw Irkand Aurelius kill six men in a minute with the same emotion as he did eating an apple.”

“None of us are picking a fight with your family,” Galmar assured her. “Even if you’ve damned well shut down our operations in the Reach and western Falkreath.”

“Eastern Orsinium,” Korli corrected. “Believe me, Galmar, the Stormcloaks have no right to those mines. The Kreathling Jarls back in the day acknowledged Agol gro-Mashog’s right to those lands. It’s only been Dengeir who chose to ignore the ties between Mashog Yar Agol and the Kreathlings that were forged by Agol’s daughter Aurelia Northstar and the Shieldmaiden Sidgara during and after the Oblivion Crisis.”

“Is that Korli Grey-Mane speaking or the Harbinger?” Ulfric asked from behind them.

“It’s _both_ ,” Korli said, turning in her seat.

Ulfric’s smile was grim. “The Companions don’t play politics.”

“No, we don’t, but I can and will acknowledge the sovereignty of my Orcish cousins and my kinfolk’s right to worship their gods in the Reach,” Korli answered sweetly. “If you tried pulling your head out of your arse long enough to consider things, you might realise that supporting Orsinium, paying wergild to Madanach and trading with Hammerfell would help build you a potential network of allies instead of giving you more enemies than just the Empire and Dominion.”

Ulfric’s nostrils flared. “And what would a girl who’s one-and-twenty know of that?”

“How _not_ to do things,” Korli retorted dryly. “The way you’re going, you’re going to get yourself crucified. While I’m philosophical on that point when it comes to you, I know what happens to the children of failed traitors – and I’d prefer my brothers not endure what I did. Work smarter, Ulfric, not harder… and don’t be a dishonourable dick who’s just reinforcing the old beliefs about Talosites being human-supremacist cunts.”

Galmar laughed. “Are you sure it was a berserker rage that killed all those Silver Hands? Because I’m pretty sure it was your sharp tongue.”

“Your mother and brother’s at the Temple,” Ulfric said tersely. “Vent your spleen on them, not me.”

“And they say yours is a loveless marriage,” Korli said sardonically as she rose to her feet. “Skjor, I’ll meet you at the gate. Talking to some people around here is like banging my head against a stone wall.”

Ralof winced but Galmar laughed while Egil just looked confused.

Her mother was at the Temple of Talos with Bjarni, who’d grown about a foot since Korli had last seen him. She wasn’t wearing her armour but simple homespun garb not unlike Korli’s, while Bjarni was wearing vivid orange and indigo in the Morrowind style. There was a white-haired girl, probably around Bjarni’s age, seated with them as the priestess intoned a prayer to Talos.

The Nord prayers were a great deal more visceral than those of the Blades, being more about bloody vengeance on the enemy and the might of humanity instead of unity and wise rulership. Korli grimaced at one particularly graphic verse and wondered why it was thought appropriate that a couple twelve-year-olds listen to it.

Finally, the priestess finished up and took herself out of the prayer hall with one pointed glance at Korli.

“Korli!” Bjarni leapt out of the pew and came over to give her a hug worthy of his namesake animal. “I’m not surprised you’re the Harbinger!”

“Blame the Companions for that,” she said ruefully as she returned the embrace.

“No, it was all your work,” Sigdrifa said in her harsh soprano. “Thongvor and Thonar failed to learn from my fall and they paid for it with their lives.”

“They’d betrayed a lot of people, including you and Ulfric,” Korli said softly. “They intended to become the leaders of the Stormcloak rebellion.”

“Bjarni, Njada, go have some breakfast. Korli and I must speak alone.”

“Yes, Mother,” Bjarni sighed, then grinned. “Try not to get punched in the face again.”

Njada rolled her eyes but went with him.

“Galmar’s niece. Her father’s more useless than… well. He’s useless.” Sigdrifa rounded the pew to stand a few paces from Korli. She’d aged in the past two or so moons, faint lines around her eyes and mouth and a definite silvering to her black hair. The austerity was still there but its overlying hardness had begun to crumble.

“If he’s the racist who was abusing womer in the street, someone’s going to punch him in the face,” Korli noted. “In fact, it might even be Athis who does it. Dunmer have the right to honourable justice too.”

“I was around your age when I gave birth to you,” Sigdrifa mused. “Two years of marriage to your father and… well.”

“You two were incompatible on almost every level,” Korli agreed. “Dengeir and Arius have much to answer for – and the High-Mother too, from what I’ve heard.”

“I knew nothing of children. Shieldmaidens didn’t need that information – we were supposed to be celibate. But Arius made bold claims and the High-Mother chose to believe them, so I was sent from Yngvild to marry Rustem.” Sigdrifa sighed. “I know now how the Shieldmaiden acolytes were treated was wrong. If there are Shieldmaidens, it will be a choice made in adulthood, not forced upon youngsters.”

“That, I could understand and forgive,” Korli said softly. “But _why_ did you pretend, even after you knew I was alive, that I never existed?”

“Because I wanted to pretend none of it ever happened,” was Sigdrifa’s candid answer. “I had a new chance to be the weapon Talos decreed me to be with none of my past to haunt me.”

She paused. “Though on second thought, Thongvor might have made a better husband than Ulfric. We could have been – would have been – High King and Queen by now.”

“He died with an icy spear in his throat from Madanach after tripping over my gauntlet when I challenged him to trial by combat,” Korli answered with some asperity. “Ulfric, at least, has some intelligence and honour.”

Sigdrifa gave a short gruff bark of a laugh. “Thongvor failed because he didn’t have me. At least he would have kept you.”

“Given my closeness to Granma, Granduncle Madanach and Kaie, I’m rather glad you didn’t,” Korli said bluntly. “Most of what I learned of honour came from the Hagraven who couldn’t bear to kill her own daughter in Madanach’s throne room that fateful day and then used her exile to make sure her granddaughter turned out as okay as could be expected.”

“That was Mother?” Sigdrifa asked in surprise.

“Yes.”

“Then she failed in her duty and the oaths she had made.” Sigdrifa sighed again. “You’re going to continue blocking us, aren’t you? What has the Empire done to deserve your loyalty?”

“Nothing. I gave Ulfric a few pieces of advice. Madanach’s going to marry one of his cousins to Igmund, and knowing how useless a twat that man is, she’s going to be Jarl-Regent before long. You won’t be able to pull your shit in western Skyrim, Orsinium and Hammerfell; they’re forewarned and forearmed. Any ‘bandits’ or other unsavoury characters wandering around Skyrim will eventually meet the blade of a Companion.” Korli caught and held her mother’s gaze. “Every time you step off the road of honour, _I will be there_. The ways of Talos planted the seeds of the Great War. I’ll be promoting the old ways, the true ways of Skyrim. The Nords are the First Men… the elder sibling. _We are not humanity’s tyrants._ ”

Sigdrifa smiled, the expression one of pride. “I don’t expect anything less from you. Shieldmaidens didn’t just serve Talos, you know. We had a few who served Kynareth and you’re obviously one of those. You are the firstborn daughter of your generation and it’s fitting you’re a Shieldmaiden.”

“I am no Shieldmaiden. I’ve been celibate because I’ve been a little too bloody busy to indulge in romance, not because I’ve made any vows.” Korli shook her head as she turned away. “Now things have settled down, maybe that will change. We’ll see.”

“Do you truly hate me so much?” Sigdrifa asked softly.

“No. It’s like hating a shark for being a shark. But you and Father are excellent examples of how _not_ to be married.”

Sigdrifa laughed. “I suppose we are. What will you do now?”

“Return to Jorrvaskr. Do me the favour of not being a ruthless bitch for once. I could use the rest.”

“I assure you, Korli, you won’t hear a peep from me.”

That was not reassuring, but Korli would take it. She left the Temple, inhaled Kyne’s good clean air, and went to the Candlehearth Hall to collect her arms and armour. It was time to go home.


End file.
